Fallen Angels
by Cold Hearted Wings
Summary: Drabble Collection. Not all Slytherins are blind followers of the dark lord. These are stories about Slytherin characters who have become confused, afraid,... But because they are remarkable people, these situations and emotions could never be just ordinary. New chap: Crabbe. Nothing good about this guy...
1. Shame - Regulus Black

**_Disclaimer: _**_The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

* * *

**_Character:_**_ Regulus Arcturus Black__  
_**_Prompt:_**_ Used_

* * *

_"So if you go and leave recklessly_  
_We can only be mean, we can only be mean_  
_That's something I, through the tons of my life,_  
_Never wanted to be, never wanted to be."_

**_Getting Even, White Lies_**

* * *

**Shame**

Regulus had been alone in his bedroom for some time when the loud pop of Kreachers' apparition magic was heard and the house-elf materialized over his rug, begging for forgiveness. His blood shot eyes were reddish and soared, one of them black from a heavy blow. His face was still wet with tears. His body was covered in bruises and cuts and there was blood dripping on the floor.

The bones of his leg were broken. It lay motionless in an awkward angle, as the elf dragged himself to the door. He was in pain, but to barge into his master's chambers unannounced was a terrible crime for a house-elf, and that was why, in spite of his condition, Kreacher talked so desperately about punishing himself.

Regulus jumped off his bed immediately and kneeled down to help the house-elf. _"It's okay, Kreacher, I ordered you to come to my room, remember?"_ he lied.

Regulus fixed the broken bones with a spell and pointed the wand to the cuts and bruises, whispering powerful healing enchantments that sounded a lot like a mournful song. That was his fault. When the Dark Lord mentioned he required an elf, Regulus volunteered. Whatever the job, Kreacher was the best. He was not an ordinary house elf, he was his friend.

After a while, Regulus picked Kreacher up on his arms and took him to his bed. The elf was confused, moaning in pain, speaking words that didn't make sense. Echoes of terrible memories and bad dreams. Water. He asked for water.

"_Aguamenti"_, Regulus whispered, and dropped the water into Kreacher's dry lips. The young man caught a glimpse of the dark skull carved in his forearm and for the first time, Regulus regretted it. He felt used. He had no idea that Kreacher would be tortured, but that was hardly an excuse. The dark mark on his skin made him just as responsible.

Had he not hurt others just as badly? Had he not done worse?

Kreacher drank the water eagerly, and Regulus watched. He watched his loyal companion of so many lonely hours in his youth, and wondered how could he have been such a fool? The dark lord shows no respect to anyone. How could he be expected to show respect to such a defenseless creature?

Like a comedy of errors, it all came back to Regulus. The fanaticism, the purposelessness, the desperate need to be feared. But Regulus was not afraid. He was ashamed. Of not putting up a fight, of being so vain... The Dark Lord branded him to make clear that Regulus' body and life belonged to him, but if he thought that was all Regulus had he was mistaken.

For the first time to Regulus' eyes, Kreacher seemed immensely old. The elf used to take care of him when he was sick. Now the roles were inverted, and Regulus would do his part. He would do better. As Regulus held the elf's hand he was sure…

He would atone.

* * *

**_A/N_**_: This is a drabble collection for my** Slytherin Boot Camp**, combined with the **Music Apreciation Challenge. **  
_

_Slytherin is a very misunderstood house. It is my intention to depict Slytherin characters as people we can relate to, or people we would like to meet, rather than blind followers of Voldemort. Whether or not I succeed, its up to the readers to decide._

_More notes on my Livejournal soon. _

_Unbeta'd_


	2. Fear - Barty Crouch Jr

**_Disclaimer: _**_The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

* * *

**_Character:_**_ Bartemius Crouch Jr._

**_Prompt:_**_ Five minutes to midnight_

* * *

_"If we suddenly fall should I scream out_  
_Or keep very quiet and cling to_  
_My mouth as I'm crying_  
_So frightened of dying_  
_Relax yes I'm trying_  
_But fear's got a hold of me_

_Yes, this fear's got a hold of me"_

**_Death, by White Lies_**

* * *

**Fear**

Five minutes to midnight. It was December, and the cold wind invaded the house through the carelessly open window, rendering whatever heating spells might be in place ineffective. Bartemius wanted to feel the cold. He took of his shirt and shivered from head to toe for a second when the first gust of winter wind embraced his naked torso. He closed his eyes. The opened them up again and glanced at his wrist watch one more time.

The room was small. He barely gave one step and laid down, his shirtless back flat against the icy floor, and every hair in his body stood on end. It was almost as if the cold had taken form, sinking its long fingers into his skin, grabbing his lungs, making it difficult to breath. Numbing his higher thoughts, thoughts of the choice he was struggling to make. The cold itself caused him pain. Not a lot, though, just enough.

Midnight. Barty reached for his wand, pointing it up to some books in the upper shelves, making them fly over his head. It was a childish, pointless spell, but he did it because he could. He could now, that is. He was officially seventeen years of age. The trace had worn off. In a way, he was free.

_In a way_, the young Slytherin thought angrily. In so many other ways, he was still completely stuck, with no idea what to do with his life whatsoever. He often felt- Different, even brilliant, when he compared himself with kids his own age. He understood thinks quickly, learnt spells faster, remembered things few others could. Sometimes he even believed he would do great things, incredible things, and most days, he was sure he would never be a menial public servant like the indignant father who'd given him his name. _Have you ever felt like you were meant for something bigger? __Something special? _Barty did...

The envelope with his O.W.L. results lied crumpled inside the dustbin half a metre away, whispering that these thoughts of greatness were nothing but wishful thinking. He had barely gotten passing grades in most subjects, as his father kept reminding him, grief and disappointment in the old man's voice. Most days, Barty didn't mind. But sometimes those grades made him wonder. Perhaps he would never be more than a disappointment. Perhaps he was destined to be- ordinary. And these dark thoughts filled him with fear...

Levitation spells were too easy. Barty needed something more challenging.

A cockroach climbed up his wall. One word, _Actio_, and it was in his hands. One more word, _Crucio_, and it rolled to the floor, moving its tiny legs in the air, in agony. That was what pain was supposed to look like. It didn't last long though. He did it again. That was more like it. He had had a good teacher.

_Crucio_, he whispered one more time. If the cockroach could scream, would it be screaming right now? Perhaps one day he would find out.

* * *

_**Author's Note**: How was this one? I have this written for a while, updated here from an old account. It just fits in this drabble collection_


	3. Hatred - Vincent Crabbe

**_Disclaimer: _**_The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

* * *

**_Character:_**_ Vincent Crabbe_

**_Prompt:_**_ Five minutes to midnight_

* * *

_"I' was waiting in the backseat of the car..."_

**_Bad Love, by White Lies_**

* * *

**Hatred**

"Draconifors"

Nothing happened. Nothing ever happened, no matter how long Crabbe tried.

_"The Draconifors spell aims to transform inanimate objects into small transfigured dragons. These replicas are different from real dragons in several aspects, not the least of which are size and power. The first records of such spell date back to –"_

History again. Magical books were always full of dates and useless historical facts. What did he care how long ago the bloody enchantment had been invented?

"Draconifors!"

Nothing.

"Crabbe!" someone called, but he ignored it.

_"…,size depends on the object from which they are transfigured. A smaller object will produce a smaller dragon, whilst a larger object will produce a larger dragon. That being said, dragons produced from this spell are generally small, although particularly gifted witches and wizards have been known to transfigure dragons as large as—"_

"Crabbe!"

"Draconifors!" He repeated a little more loudly this time, once again ignoring whoever was calling him. The cup didn't change.

Angrily, the fifth year student closed the book with a lot more strength than necessary and pushed it off the table. It landed with a heavy sound on the floor, and several heads turned his way to see what had happened.

Vincent Crabbe was sitting in a black leather armchair in the farthest corner of the common room. The table in which _Intermediate Transfiguration_ had been a few seconds earlier was the same dark wood table in which his cup lay, the same cup he had so unsuccessfully tried to transform.

"Crabbe!"

"Draconifors!" He repeated. He knew who was calling, but he didn't—If he could only make the bloody dragon. "Draconifors!"

Something happened. A head appeared, followed by a pair of wings, and what had been a silver cup just moments before was now a tiny and frail dragon. But the transformation was incomplete. There was still a grip springing from the back of the dragon, and the creature seemed to emerge from the unchanged base of the cup. No matter how much it tried to spread its wings, it could not fly.

Then there was laughter.

"What's this?"

Draco Malfoy asked, a smile on his face, half disgusted, half amused. Goyle used his wand to lift the tiny dragon-cup by its handle and the powerless beast gasped and buffed, unable to produce fire. Pansy and Daphne didn't seem able to stop laughing.

"Blimey, Crabbe," Malfoy continued when Goyle dropped the dragon back on the table. "This is a third-year-level spell! Draconifors."

At the smallest gesture of his wand, a silver jug became a dragon, twice the size of Crabbe's failed attempt. The short beast spread its wings and blew fire over the dragon-cup, unable to defend itself. When the fire was done, Crabbe's dragon was a silver cup again, only slightly burnt.

Draco was still laughing.

"Now will you come?" He asked. "I've been calling you for hours!"

Without a word, Crabbe stood up to follow him outside. There was burning hatred in his eyes.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** _I prefer to write about the good side of Slytherins, seeing as we have enough of the bad side from cannon. But I just re-read the seventh book, remembered Crabbe's little stunt in the room of requirement. Well, nothing good about this guy. No redeeming qualities.


End file.
